


Once More With Feeling

by JenicaKing



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Teen Titans (Animated Series)
Genre: Abuse, Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Violence, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson as Slade Wilson's Apprentice, Dick Grayson is Not Broken, Dick Grayson is a Ray of Sunshine, Dick Grayson is a Rude Bitch, Dick Grayson is psychotic, Emotional Manipulation, Gaslighting, Gen, More people to come probs, Psychosis, Slade Wilson is confusing, Still Somehow, apprentice au, is the narrator reliable? you decide, psychotic character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:41:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23504776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenicaKing/pseuds/JenicaKing
Summary: Dick Grayson is maybe not in the best place right now, and Slade still wants an apprentice. This time he'll do things a little differently.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Slade Wilson
Comments: 112
Kudos: 267





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is gonna be a mess, honestly. But we are Here with some Thoughts and Opinions about Certain Characters. We'll see where this goes.

He hadn't thought about it in so long. It was strange really. The whole affair used to occupy so much of his thoughts. So much of his time. But time passes and dulls things. Changes things. Even things he was sure were immutable. He'd left the Titans at eighteen. Dick Grayson's absence was much more noticeable now he was too old for a boarding school to be plausible. He still called them. Still got coffee or pizza when they were in each other's neighbourhoods. But it wasn't the same as living with each other.

But he'd left and tried college. It hadn't worked, but he'd tried. Then he tried the police. And well, that hadn’t worked either. He had, in fact been kicked off the force for fighting with his (corrupt) co-workers. And pinning an all cops are bastards button to his uniform probably didn't help. Now he was... a full time hero again. Which is functionally a polite way of saying that Dick Grayson, twenty one, was incapable of holding down a job. Although he always thought that was reasonable, considering that the only heroes he knew with jobs either had superspeed or they were grossly overqualified desk job affairs, or they weren't _really_ jobs at all, like Oliver or Bruce. And he'd been a full time hero before, though granted, Jump city had been more happy to have him around than Blüdhaven ever would be. But he was comfortable with his current arrangement. And that was probably why he hadn't thought of it in so long.

Of him in so long.

Of Slade.

He'd stopped bothering the Titans well and truly buy the time Dick left. And reports were that he hadn’t started again. And he hadn't bothered Dick either. Not really. Not tangibly. The echoes that vanished with the bleary wakefulness didn't really count and that was the only place he'd seen him in so long.

Until now. Of course.

He'd popped up in Gotham of all places. It made Dick's teeth itch. Too close to worlds colliding. Slade and Bruce in the same city. But the only way too fix it was to actually go home and... that wasn't his idea of a good time either. Still, he didn't have a lot of choice. So now he was now on his way to Gotham. With any luck he'd find Slade, get him to leave and be out within a night and the big bad bat wouldn't realise he'd been there at all.

Well. Wouldn't have time to do anything about him being there at least. Which with any luck would basically be the same thing, in practice.

He sighed, tapping at the minicomputer in his bike and hoping that it was powerful enough to find Slade and he wouldn’t be forced to use one of B’s. He allowed himself a satisfied smile when his shitty tracker worked fine. He would later curse himself for not realising that it really shouldn’t have. For now he set off to abandoned warehouse number fuck even knows anymore to go yell at a highly skilled assassin until he hopefully went home.

The warehouse itself was about as notable as any other. Which is to say it wasn’t. Dick had always wondered if Gotham had ever been productive enough to have all these warehouses, or if they’d just been built for the sake of it and immediately left. He sighed as he got off the bike. It wasn’t as though he was completely dismissing the chance he’d have to fight. But he was fairly confident that Slade was as likely to kill him as he was to kill Slade. That maybe wasn’t wise. Afterall it had been years since he’d dealt with him and the hesitation may have faded. Their once mutual obsession had certainly died down. And he was doing his best to keep it clamped down. He briefly debated going in the front door, but… well. Eleven years of training was hard to break. He pulled himself up to a window and slipped inside.

“Well, well. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming, Robin.”

He growled in the back of his throat. Half at being called Robin, and half at Slade’s voice in general. He continued inside, not even bothering to scan properly because experience has well and truly taught him that he will see Slade when _Slade_ wants him to and not before. “Disappointed?”

“I am actually,” He hummed, bored almost. Dick moved through the warehouse, rolling his eyes. “Honestly, Robin. After last time I would have thought you’d take more care.”

“Last time?” He raised an eyebrow, the last time they'd been alone in a warehouse was... “Wait, you mean that time you enslaved me?”

“Such inflammatory language.”

He laughed. “That was so long ago.” He saw a shadow move and spun around. “Goddamn, Slade. You still hung up on your failed attempt to apprentice me from when I was fifteen?”

“No, merely suggesting you should have noticed the similarities to now.”

He frowned, “You’re… trying again?” He laughed brightly, “Slade, you’ve got nothing on me. I’m not part of a team. And even if I was that trick wouldn’t work on anyone I care about. Because they all know you did it last time.”

“Robin.” He said sternly, and it made Dick’s pull a disgusted face.

“That’s not my name anymore, Slade.” Another shadow moved and he spun around to glare at it. “I’ve been Nightwing for years. You should catch up.”

“Ah, of course. My mistake Richard.”

He blanched. He’d forgotten. He’d completely forgotten that Slade knew his name. It had never come up really, it was just… there. Background noise that neither of them drew attention to beyond lamp shading. “Slade-”

“Now,” His voice was directly behind him and Dick jumped into a front flip to get away from him. Slade watched him lazily, “Are you certain there’s nothing I’ve… ‘got on you’?”

Dick straightened. “That’s not news. You’ve known my name for years. Why wave it in my face now?”

“Because I want to. Because your career trajectory is, frankly, disturbing.” He began pacing as Dick glared. “It seems, Richard, that without a leader, or a team to lead, you’ve become even more reckless. Two years ago, you never would have walked in here alone without doing any reconnaissance. You’re sloppy.”

He heard a click and barely ducked in time to miss a trio of throwing knives that launched across the warehouse. “You fucking trapped the building?” He backflipped away from another set of projectiles. “What the shit?”

Slade launched at him, collected him with his bo staff and sent him skidding across the concrete. “You should have known that.”

Dick glared as he pushed himself up, pulled out his eskrima sticks. “Asshole.”

“You need a guiding hand to reach your full potential, Richard.” Slade continued as he strode over, settling into a sparring stance just in front of him.

He growled, “Stop calling me that.” He launched at him, but Slade blocked his blows easily and smacked his spine with the steel staff. Dick bit his cheek. “What do you care about my potential?”

“Simple, you remind me of myself. It would be a crime for everything you could be to go to waste.” When Dick spun around to try again, Slade disarmed him easily. “Return as my apprentice and you _will_ reach that potential.”

“Eat shit.”

“Richard. I know who you are. And everything else that goes along with that.”

He shook his head, “You’ve kept that secret for six years. There’s no reason for you to stop.”

Slade cocked his head to one side, “A whim. Are you willing to risk your family on it remaining?” He continued when Dick didn’t answer, “The identities of the Batman and his sidekicks are incredibly valuable.”

“Not super.” Dick shrugged, trying to force nonchalance and calm himself down. “Not to most of the Rogues. They’re more about the chase than the capture.”

Slade scoffed, “They’re also broke. I’m talking about the organised crime bosses, the white collar criminals. The people who hire me.”

He… had a point. Joker and Scarecrow wouldn’t pay for Batman’s name, but mob bosses, and fuck, Lex probably would. His distress must have shown on his face, because Slade seemed like he was smirking.

“Well, my apprentice?”

He closed his eyes. He had, realistically, two options. Tell Slade to get fucked. Call what was hopefully a bluff and hope that he was right and that he wouldn’t actually sell their names. Which… was honestly about fifty fifty. Slade wasn’t stupid, and this was his last bit of leverage on Dick. But is e took the info to the right people he could functionally retire with what he’d get for it. Or, he could agree. Go back to being Slade’s apprentice. With no team or close interpersonal connections to notice his absence except for infrequent phone calls that he was good at ignoring or forgetting and, he was sure, the lowkey stalking from Batman, this arrangement was certain to last much longer than the last one.

If it were just him. Just his name. Just his life. It wouldn’t be a question. He was barely using his civilian identity as it was, and he’d lived without it for three years. But it wasn’t. It was Bruce’s and Alfred’s as well. At the least. And while He was sure Bruce and Alfred would survive without their id’s it would make everything harder. Because they’d lose access to Bruce’s money. They’d lose the house. Possibly the cave. Bruce would have contingencies but that’s not the same. His safehouses were… fine as safehouses but they weren’t bases. And Alfred was getting older. And Bruce was always so careful. And it wasn’t his secret. He- “ _Fuck_.”

“Language.” Slade said evenly. Dick gave him a venomous look and he chuckled, gesturing to the door. “Shall we then?”

He glared, “What no costume change right here and now? That’s what we did last time.”

He chuckled. “No. But,” He pulled something silver out of a pocket. “Your new earpiece.” He held it out and Dick took it, turning the little silver disc over in his fingers. There was no garish orange and black S on this one which, Dick wasn’t sure if it meant anything but, it was there. Slade tipped his head to one side. “Well?”

He tucked into his ear. He felt something snake out of the disc, wrap around his ear and slip down his neck, cutting in just above the top of his spine and forcing itself under his skin. He screamed and tried to tug it off but moved too late. “Fuck! What-?”

“Calm down. It won’t hurt you. I won’t have you ditching your communications.”

“My tracker you mean.” He rubbed at his neck. The snake of metal was rapidly warming to match his skin.

Slade didn’t respond, gestured for him to leave again. Once they made it outside, he shepherded him away from his bike and to a car. “We’ll pick it up later. Get in.”

Dick hesitated.

“Now. Apprentice.” It felt like this was the last point he could leave. This was the last chance. He inhaled slowly. Feedback spiked in his ear and he shouted, gripping at his head. It stopped and he panted softly. Right. He was passed that point already. “ _Now_.”

Dick got in the car.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for some Wildly Varied Chapter Lengths.

They hadn’t left Gotham. Slade had apparently set up a base in the city. A slick looking apartment that he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be on Bruce’s radar or not. So Dick had failed miserably on every count. He at least had one thing in his favour. When his friends lives were on the line, Slade could activate the nanites and he had time to torture them where he could see them suffer and change his mind. But his name was either sold or not. It was public, or it wasn’t. And that would allow him any number of little resistances. Snark and petty back-talk. Which he was planning to take full advantage of.

Slade tossed him a change of clothes. Just black sweats and a t-shirt. He raised an eyebrow, “What, no uniform?”

“What point is there in you wearing a suit while you’re here?” He said dismissively. “This way.” He led him through the apartment, pointing out what rooms were where idly, before stopping outside of a thick saferoom door. They weren’t uncommon sights in high end Gotham apartments. Equipped with gas filters, sound proofing and any number of other counters for the many many rogues in the city. He typed the code and swung open the door. “And your room.”

He glanced inside, the lock and screen had been completely disabled on the inside, and it was relatively bare of the furniture that Dick knew was standard in these rooms. But it had a mini en-suite, and a bed and that was it. He scoffed, “My cell.”

Slade didn’t acknowledge the comment, just pushed him inside by his shoulder. “Get changed. I’ll be back to check on you later.” He started to close the door, stopped, “Oh, and Richard. Take your mask off, too.”

Before he could respond, the door was shut. And he slammed a fist into it, screaming. He knew there were cameras in there. Probably microphones as well. But at that moment he did not care. He stopped punching the door before he could damage his hand. That would probably cause him more issues overall. He knew why Slade had put him in the saferoom. There were no windows. With the outer cameras disables there was no way for him to know what was happening or what time was passing outside. A handy dandy solitary cell in the centre of the apartment. Slade had probably considered what had gone wrong with his first attempt at this as much as Dick had. And sending him out, so soon, and so angry, had definitely not helped. He was not going to be making the mistake of sending him out before he was sufficiently broken.

He wanted to be stubborn in his assertion that he would never be broken. That he would never be obedient in the way that Slade wanted. But he wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t the most mentally stable. He never had been. And he wasn’t sure if it was residual effects of years of fear gas exposure, or side effects of the psychoactive dust Slade himself had infected him with, or if it was just his own mind, but he really shouldn’t deny the slight psychotic symptoms that flared up occasionally. He didn't know if Slade knew about them, but he would. And he'd know how to take advantage of it.

The only thing Dick could say with confidence was that he wouldn't break on his own behalf. Nothing Slade threatened to do to _him_ would work. But Slade had plenty to threaten that wasn't him. He sighed, starting to pull his uniform off. He fidgeted with his mask but put off removing it for now. At least until he was dressed.

He knew that Slade knew who he was but that wasn't the point. The mask was a compartmentalisation thing. It was more about keeping the world of vigilantism from touching the least stable, most human parts of him. Keeping the small frightened child that started this apart from it. He figured Slade knew that as well. It was probably a good part of why he’d asked him to take it off. Well... it may be early, but he may as well test a petty resistance. He left his uniform in a heap and clambered into the back corner of the bed to wait for Slade’s return.

He didn't know how long he waited. He still had his gear, admittedly. But it wasn’t like he had a time piece in amongst it. He knew the rough time by the ebb and flow of the city he was in. He had been better at knowing the time when he’d been leading the Titans. Mostly. Unless he was spiralling over a case. But other than that, because otherwise at least one of the others, probably Beast Boy would miss something or mess up something that _did_ have to be timed. But since he’d been on his own he didn’t really care. He could manage himself around the city so he usually did.

Unfortunately, in a soundproof saferoom with no windows or outer cameras, the city was largely irrelevant.

When Slade did come back, the hall outside was well lit, but that’s all he could tell. “Your mask is still on.”

Dick shifted from trying to see past him into the hall and looked at his face, “So’s yours.”

His eye narrowed. “I gave you an order.”

“What are you gonna do? Tell a few people my name as a warning?” He sneered.

Slade’s hand moved slightly, and screeching feedback rose in his ear. He tried to shake it away from his head, before trying to pull the earpiece out. It didn’t even shift and the screeching was just getting worse. He gripped his at his head, curling tighter into a ball, trying and failing not to scream. He hadn’t registered that Slade had walked over to him until he felt his fingers at the edge of his mask. He batted at his hand weakly, shouting at him. Slade ignored him, peeling away the mask easily. Once it was gone, the feedback died and he whimpered softly. “There. Was that so hard, Richard?”

“Get fucked.” He hissed.

Slade picked up his uniform, “And you even left all your gear. Good boy. Tell me, do I have to remove any Bat trackers, or did you do that yourself after your last family reunion?” He glanced at him, “It would have been Jason’s funeral, wouldn’t it?”

Dick growled, “Get. Fucked.”

He tutted, “Language, Apprentice.”

He sat up, “I’d tell you to go to hell, but considering they _spat you back out_ -”

“Goodnight, Richard. We have a lot to discuss in the morning.” Slade slammed the door, and shut off the lights, leaving a slight glow from the en-suite and nothing more.

Dick screamed and threw his pillow at the door. Slammed his fist against it again before sliding down the metal and crying softly. He had forgotten. Time passed and it dulled things. It dulled the helplessness. It dulled the fury. It made him underestimate what he was in for. And he didn’t want to think about what that meant for the future.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More short nonsense.

He slept fitfully. Which wasn’t surprising. His sleep was always weird, varying from month to month, and this wasn’t exactly an ideal place to sleep. He dozed for a long time. Long enough that he was felt like it was unlikely that it was still technically morning when Slade opened the door. “I trust you slept well, Richard?”

“You know I didn't.” He didn't raise his eyes, instead opting to stare at the hospital blanket.

“We should discuss expectations from this arrangement.”

He scoffed. “I follow your orders. Steal for you, fight for you. In return you don't endanger my family by revealing who I am to fucking Falcone or whoever.”

“Obviously, Richard. Beyond that, you will submit to any and all training I decide you need.” He moved from the doorway, standing next to the bed. Dick turned his head away, looking at the wall. “And I’d like you to call me Master.”

He felt bile rise in his throat, in time with unbidden memories of being fifteen and helpless. He stamped them both down, “I said I’ll follow orders, Slade. And I will, but how about this time you keep your fucking kinks out of it?” He turned to glare at him in time to catch the metal plate on the back of Slade's hand in the temple.

The blow snapped his head around, and he pressed a hand to it automatically. “Now, now Richard. Let's keep a civil tongue, shall we? You are my apprentice; I am your master. There's no need to beat around the bush on the matter.”

He rolled his eyes, “No. Just to beat me. Which brings us straight back to the kink issue-” This time the metal plate collided with his cheek and he tasted blood.

He screwed his eyes closed, listening to Slade walk back to the door. He heard plastic put down on the floor. “Your breakfast. I’ll check on you later.” The door swung shut and Dick was left with only the sound of his own breathing.

***

Time, in a soundproofed, windowless room, was an elusive bastard. Dick couldn’t tell what time had passed in any interval. Slade came and went with food but he was sure that he was doing it randomly. The same with the lights turning off for the night. Dick was certain that Slade was just flicking them on and off whenever he remembered he was there.

He supposed he could technically have tried to hang onto some sense of how many days had passed by counting how many times Slade turned the lights off in his little cell, but that ship had sailed after he spent god knows how long dozing. He was fairly certain the lights had switched off twice before he came back to himself properly, but he couldn’t be sure.

He’d also considered asking. But there was nothing stopping Slade from lying to him. Hell, it would probably be in his best interest to lie, if only to keep him off balance. Also he never stayed long and any time he tried to talk to him, Dick responded with some shitty insult or backchat. Which earned him a tongue-click or disappointed sigh before the door slammed shut again.

One thing Dick _had_ figured out, was where the camera was. He spent a lot of time staring at it. A _lot_ of time shouting at it. He’d tried to reach it, to damage it but all that had earned him was feedback screeching in his ear and the lights switched off for the longest period yet or since. But he spent the most time with his face turned away from it. Staring at the wall next to his bed in silence.

Slade opened the door, picked up the empty plate and replaced it. “Richard, you’re awfully quiet.”

“I can’t train in here,” He didn’t turn his head as he spoke.

There was a few beats of silence before, “Not effectively, no.”

“You talked about training.”

A slight sigh, “When you’re ready, yes.”

Dick’s eyes flicked to him, frowning. “Ready?”

Slade rolled his eye, “Yes, Richard. When you’re ready.”

“What does that _mean_ , Slade?”

He shook his head and turned to leave.

“Slade!” Dick’s chest clenched with the sudden need to not be alone in this _fucking room_. He needed to figure out something to make him stay. Something that would stop him. Something he wanted. “Master!” Dick wanted to vomit.

Slade stopped. Turned slightly, “Yes, Apprentice?”

He curled back into his ball in the corner of the bed. He hadn’t realised he’d moved until Slade turned and he was halfway off the bed with his arm outstretched. “When- when will I be ready?”

Slade cocked his head to one side, watching him for a moment. “Why don’t we try in the morning, hmm?” He stepped outside and the door closed.

Dick turned back to his wall. His stomach was roiling. He shouldn’t have called him that. He shouldn’t be giving him what he wants. He wasn’t supposed to buckle on behalf of himself. It shouldn’t matter that he was stuck in this room. As long as he was here, his name was safe. He was supposed to be holding out except where his family were threatened. But they hadn’t been. Well they were. But not actively. He’d buckled out of panicked loneliness. On his own behalf. He had to do better. He looked around the room before letting his head thonk softly against the wall. He would do better. Once he was out of this room.

Tomorrow.


	4. Chapter 4

The door opened, and Slade stood in the door with a plate of pointedly breakfast food. It was in contrast to the normal non-time locked meals he was brought. “Good morning, Richard.” It was genial, Dick didn't have it in him to reply. He put the plate gently on the end of the bed, “Finish your breakfast, then join me outside. We’ll start your training today.” When he still made no response, Slade raised an eyebrow, “If you’re feeling... up to it, of course.” There was danger in that sentence. This was a gift and it would be prudent to treat it as such.

He forced himself to turn. “Yes, sir.”

Slade hummed shortly, turned to leave. He left the door open and Dick stared at it. He could feel an itch building in his limbs to just fucking _bolt_. Fight tooth and claw and make it out of the apartment. Go to Bruce. Explain and beg for forgiveness and do damage control when Slade sold his name but he’d be _safe_. Except he wouldn’t. None of them would be. And it would be his fault. Selfishly running. He had a way to protect them. Trying to escape was arguably worse than giving in. Because it put his family in danger.

He clenched his jaw, pulled the plate over to him, and started robotically eating it. He was mildly surprised when he managed to finish it. He considered leaving the place on the floor next to his door for a moment, but decided it was probably better for him to look proactive and take it with him.

Dick was hesitant when he reached the doorway. Almost frightened to leave the small room that was starting to feel like his world. He could smell vanilla in the air of the hallway. From a scented candle, or an infuser. He hadn't thought Slade the type. Curiosity overrode his wariness and he stepped into the well-lit airy hallway. “Sl- Sir?”

“Over here, Richard.”

Dick followed the voice down the hall to a large space that he figured was originally the living room judging by the large window that looked out on Gotham's skyline. He put the plate down next to the door and moved to the window as if he was magnetized. For a moment he'd forgotten the outside world was still a real place. He raised a hand to touch the glass-

“Not too close, Richard. You never know what voyeurs there are in this city.”

Dick dropped his hand down but was unwilling to move away from the view of the sky. “We’re in the penthouse. Aren't we?”

He saw Slade's reflection roll his eye, “Aren't we...?”

He turned, frowning slightly in confusion.

“Aren't you forgetting something at the end of your question, Richard?”

Oh. He hadn’t called him master. “Sorry sir.”

Slade sighed, “Two steps forward, one step back. We’ll get there, Richard. Now. Warm up, I'm sure I have my work cut out for me.”

***

He tried to heave himself up on shaking arms. Everything that didn't ache burned. He coughed harshly between pants, wondering how long he'd been locked in that room to be this out of practice. This _tired_.

He'd only been given a short warm up before being ordered to start hand to hand drills. Slade barked corrections and adjustments at him as he stalked across the room. Dick wasn't sure how long he'd been practicing when Slade made a frustrated sound, “Enough. Let's try a different approach.” He’d tossed over a bo staff and Dick caught it on muscle memory.

“I haven’t used a staff in years,” he shook head slightly.

Slade had responded with a snort and a derisive, “Do I look like I care?” before launching at him.

That had gone much worse than drills. Dick really had gotten sloppy. But Blüdhaven only really had goons and their bosses. He hadn't needed super tight combat. But Slade wasn’t a goon and he wasn't holding back either. Blows came hard and fast and Dick wasn't dodging half of them. When Slade wasn't batting him around like a hockey puck, he was throwing him by his arms and his hair.

Hence why now, Dick could barely push himself up.

“Pathetic. You used to be better than this. But no matter,” he strode over, grabbed Dick’s hair and pulled him to his feet. “We’ll get you back up to scratch.” He shoved him towards the hallway. “Go back to your room. Wash up. I'll check on you later and we’ll try again tomorrow.”

Shit. He didn’t want to do that. Slade would lock him in again and it’s not like Dick would be able to tell if the next time Slade let him out would be in one day or seven. He looked out the window at the shitty, dreary, pollution-clogged sky. The thought of losing it again was making his chest ache. He turned to face him, still panting softly, “Already? Can't- can't I stay out here a little longer?”

He felt like Slade was raising an eyebrow, “After that display? No. Now go.”

He looked down at his feet. He felt like he’d disappointed him. He should have done better. Been better. Less sloppy, faster to move. Slade hadn’t broken a sweat and he’d seemed almost bored. And then there was the utter fury at himself because _why did it matter?_ Who gave a shit if Slade was disappointed. He was a monster and it shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t _care_.

But caring would keep him safer. Caring would keep him out of that room for longer. “I’m sorry, sir.” He turned and left quickly. He didn’t close the door when he came into his room. Trying to maintain the illusion of freedom as long as he could.

He was halfway to the bathroom when he heard Slade’s voice, “Good boy.” The door slammed shut and locked. Dick sighed and moved into the en-suite.


	5. Chapter 5

He was never sure of the timeframes. Not really. Slade spoke like they’d been sparring once a day, every day, but Dick had no real way of verifying that. Except maybe the amount of pain Slade’s training was causing him. Every part of him ached. He wasn’t getting much better, either, and the sparring matches Slade insisted on every time he was allowed out of his room were starting to feel like an excuse to take his frustrations on Dick’s slow progress out on him.

Quietly, Dick wondered if Slade realised that beating the shit out of him was probably part of _why_ he was doing so badly.

Part of why. Only part. Sometimes in the quiet of his room he was starting to hear whispers that sounded like the league. It was not a welcome addition so his current state. It was distracting, both in and of itself, and also in his desperate attempts to keep it off Slade’s radar. He was failing. He knew that. Slade had eyes on him at all times and he couldn’t stop himself from hissing at the disappointed voices of his extended family that he knew they weren’t there. Even more egregious was his tendency to cast furtive glances at the camera whenever the whispers got too loud for him to avoid reacting to.

And all bets were off when Slade shocked him out of dozing by snapping the lights on. Dick had slept awfully, his ribs ached from his last sparring match and being comfortable enough to sleep was impossible. He groaned at the bright lights. His eyes felt gritty and tired still. He pressed his hands to them for a few seconds before he could open them.

When he did, he screamed.

Because in the corner of his room, next to the door, was Batman. Covered in blood and grime, what should have been skin around his mouth and jaw rotting away revealing flashes of teeth and bone under wet discoloured flesh.

He slammed his eyes shut, buried his face in his knees and pressed his fists to his temples. It wasn't real. There were so many reasons it wasn't real. B couldn't get to him here. Even if he could, he wouldn't wait in the corner for him to wake up. Also B wasn’t dead. Also the dead don't stand up independently like that. Also the undead didn't look like that. None he'd met anyway. Grundy had died plenty but he never looked that... juicy. Also he'd seen this before. Whenever he wasn't looking after himself, his mentor’s corpse appeared. Watching him like a spectre of what he could become if he wasn't careful. He raised his eyes slowly. It was still there. Standing impassively next to the door.

“Please go away. It's not my fault this time. It's Slade’s. I'm doing my best.” He fidgeted with his sweatpants as he spoke, watching it for any indication it had heard him. He didn't get one. “Come on, it's-" the door swung open and Dick shrank back as Slade stepped through, “Sir...”

“Richard, are you alright?” His single eye followed Dick’s gaze as it shifted rapidly between his living mentor and his dead one. “You screamed.”

“I’m fine, sir. Master.” He corrected himself, hoping that if he gave him what he wanted it would distract him. He hadn't called him master again since the first time. He hadn't called him Slade either. Not to his face. Only sir. He tried to keep his eyes on Slade, hoped he'd believe him.

“What’s behind me, Richard? What are you seeing?”

“Noth-"

“DON'T _lie_ to me, apprentice.” That was a dangerous voice. One that promised pain.

He dropped his gaze, “I'm sorry, sir.” He fidgeted, “It’s... It's not- _real_. He's not- I didn't sleep well last night is all.”

“What. Are you. Seeing?”

He looked at him again, his mask was on. It was always on. Black and gleaming orange. As impassive as the silent corpse behind him. He didn't want to say. If Slade knew what it was he would use that somehow. He clearly already knew he was seeing things. Probably knew he was hearing things. But knowing there was something wasn’t the same as knowing what it was. He could lie. It probably wouldn't work but he could try it. “It’s nothing, really. Just- just a shadow. It happens sometimes when I don’t get enough sleep.”

He knew it was a lie. He had to know. “Then I'll make sure to tire you out, today.” He stood to the side, gesturing to the door. “Come eat your breakfast.”

Dick blinked at him, “I- I’m... not eating in here?”

Slade exhaled, something like a sigh, “Do you see any food in here, Richard? If you really want, I can go get it-”

“No! No, sir. I’m sorry.”

He gestured to the door again. “Then let’s go.”

He scrambled to his feet, trying not to look at Batman as he turned his decomposing face to follow him. He flinched when he turned the corner and Batman had settled at the end of the hallway, still watching. He sighed softly, “Why is this the day I’m having?”

“Your… shadow?” Slade said in his ear.

“He’s just gonna hover around for a while. Creepy fuck.”

“Language.” He chided easily.

They moved into the modern open plan kitchen, where breakfast was sitting on the bench. Slade’s on elegant crockery, and Dick’s on the same dingy plastic plate it always was. They ate in silence, and it was… uncomfortably _normal_. As if it was just an awkward meal with a teacher, not with a man who had forced him to come here and locked him in a solitary cell. It was unsettling. A voice that sounded like Clark’s whispered accusations of betrayal in his ear. One that sounded like Diana called him disappointed, disgusted names and he raised his shoulders to his ears and ignored them.

***

A blow from Slade's staff sent him skidding across the floor with enough force to jar his spine when it slammed against the wall. He groaned, tried not to glance at Batman's decomposing face. He was even more distracted than usual. The whispers hadn’t gone away when he started training like they had previously. They’d followed him, taunting and berating and insulting. He was deteriorating, irritatingly fast. Or maybe he wasn't. Maybe this had been a long time coming. Time wasn’t real anyway.

“Pathetic, again.” Slade settled into his stance and waited for Dick to pull himself up. “I said again!”

He glared. He was so _tired_. Tired of this. Of sparring that was about the beating. Of not knowing what days, what weeks, what time had bled away from him. Tired of whispers that sounded like his family but couldn't be his family and their viscous cruelty. Of the spectre of his past and future fuck-ups loitering in his field of vision. Tired of Slade.

He got to his feet and once he was standing he felt exhaustion give way to almost manic anger. He was getting _worse_. Slade was making him _worse_. His mind his movements were all suffering because of these matches and if _he_ could see it, past the isolation, past the hallucinations, past _everything_ , then why? Why the _fuck_ couldn't Slade? He growled, “Has it occurred to you, that beating the shit out of me every fucking day isn't actually helping? That maybe training should be more than a thinly veiled excuse to beat me if you actually want me to improve?!” He was shaking with fury, advancing towards him without breaking eye-contact, “And that maybe, just _maybe_ , fucking with my sense of time and locking me in solitude is the reason that _that_ is decomposing in the fucking corner?!” he pointed at the Bat, the empty space Slade saw there.

“The shadow is decomposing, is it Richard?” Slade said evenly.

Dick screamed. He’d forgotten he’d lied about that. “Yes. Sure. Why not?” A voice that wasn’t Diana’s called him a coward and a liar and he twisted his head away from her.

His eye narrowed, “It’s not just whatever’s behind me, is it?” When he got no response he closed the gap between them and forced Dick to face him, squeezing his jaw painfully, “Is it?”

Dick’s eyes snapped open, as fast as it had come, the rage dribbled out of him and he was just _so tired_. “No.” He let the tension drain away and it felt like Slade's hand on his jaw was the only thing holding him up, “I'm so tired. Slade-” he winced as the grip on his face tightened, “I'm- Sir-"

When Slade pulled away Dick wobbled slightly. “Hit the showers, and get some rest. I’ll come check on you in a bit.”

He tried not to crumple, “Please.”

“Please, what?” Slade spat, irritated.

Dick flinched, “Please don’t lock me in there again.”

He sighed, “Richard just- Go shower. You’re in no state to have any kind of discussion now.” He steered him back to his room by his shoulder and gently shoved him inside. “Try to get at least some rest, apprentice,” Slade said, tiredly, as the door swung closed.


	6. Chapter 6

He didn’t get any rest. He showered and changed into a clean set of clothes that he hadn’t noticed until he’d needed them and curled up on his bed. The whispering of the voices that weren’t the league died down eventually. They’d be back, but Dick was glad for the respite. The Batman was still there. But he was silent and fairly unobtrusive all things considered. As long as he didn't look at him, Dick was functionally alone with the sound of his breathing. He thought about his outburst, and more’s the point, Slade’s reaction. He’d seemed tired. Not angry, not- not anything like it. Just tired. He didn’t threaten to sell his name. Didn’t lash out. Didn’t hit him. He didn’t even raise his voice. He was just tired. Dick knew he wanted to read all sorts of things into Slade’s words and actions. Sadness, contrition, the same sort of tacit, silent apology he used to get from Bruce when he knew Dick was right.

He also knew he shouldn’t.

Because attributing things like that to Slade was a slippery slope. One that led to reading kindness when there wasn’t any and affection where there was barely tolerance.

Slade hadn’t been any of those things. Only tired and aware that he would get nothing more of use out of Dick in this state. He couldn’t afford to let himself see anything more than that.

It was just so different to last time.

He'd mouthed off then too. Not like that, admittedly. But he hadn’t been dealing with hallucinations back then. But whenever he'd mouthed off at Slade last time the punishment had been immediate and usually severe. He would never have gotten away with shouting like that. It may not have been a threat to the Titans. Not immediately. It often wasn’t. But it would have meant a beating, at least a backhand. It wouldn't have mattered to Slade back then that he wouldn't have gotten anything else out of him, it wouldn't have been the point. The point was discipline, punishment. And it was weird that he had just sent him to his room this time.

It wasn't like him.

He frowned. It wasn't like him six years ago. But time passed. Dulled things. Changed things. Even Slade’s temper. Even that which he thought immutable.

This time wasn’t like last time. The first time, Slade had sent him out into the field by now. More than once. He figured, at least. Time was… he wasn’t really sure how long he’d been here, but he was _sure_ that it was longer than it had taken Slade to send him to rob Wayne Enterprises by now. That had been a punishment for mouthing off too, an avenue that he was apparently hesitant to use this time. He hadn’t been allowed to leave the apartment, was barely allowed out of his room. Maybe the shift in disciplinary styles was just an extension of that. Or maybe it was just a part of the wiggle room he had because of the radically different threat.

That didn’t feel like it was the truth. Wiggle room wouldn’t have bought him this.

He let out a huff of air, looked at the Bat on the far side of the room, “I don't suppose you have any insight? He’s always been kinda similar to you.”

It didn't respond beyond what might have been a death rattle escaping it's rotting mouth.

“Yeah. Thought not.” He rolled over. It didn't really matter what was behind Slade's behaviour, as long as he didn't let it... humanize him. That felt harsh. He was a person. A shitty murderous person, yeah, but a person. But he was also Dick’s captor. In a position of such absolute power over him that humanize felt like the only accurate way to describe it. He scrubbed at his scalp with his fingernails and made a long low frustrated sound. He wished Slade had just hit him. Then it would at least be simple.

The door eased open and he heard a sigh, “Feel any better?” The only response he gave was a shrug. “Did you get any rest?” After another lackluster answer the end of the bed dipped as Slade sat. Dick drew himself into a sitting position, hugging his knees close to his chest and pointedly ignoring the Bat still in the corner. “Richard?”

“Hmm?”

“This is something we need to discuss,” Slade said evenly, “I need to know what you’re experiencing.”

He rested his ear on his knees, felt the metal disc of the comm unit dig into his flesh, “Do you though?”

“Shadows don’t decompose, Richard. What are you really seeing?”

He flicked his gaze to Slade’s, trying to find an imperfection, a blemish in the smooth orange and black metal. “Why do you use my full name?”

Slade closed his eye and inhaled deeply, “Richard-”

“No one uses my full name. Except like… Alfred. But only when I’m in trouble, so why?”

“Because I want to, Richard. It really doesn’t matter. Tell me what you’re seeing.”

He looked away again, “I don’t want to. You’ll just use it against me.”

“Why would I do that?” He asked flatly.

Dick raised an eyebrow. “Because you kidnapped me.”

“I didn’t kidnap you, Richard. I offered you a position and you took it. I didn’t force you.” He said tiredly.

“You threatened me!” He snapped his head up, “You’re still threatening me!”

Slade shrugged, “If that’s the way you want to see it, Apprentice.”

“Fuck you.” The sharp sting of static peaked in his ear and he winced.

“Language.” He reprimanded easily when the static vanished. “How long have these hallucinations been plaguing you?”

He laughed softly, “Plaguing me? Why do you phrase things like that?”

“Just answer the question.”

He fidgeted with his pants, “It’s your fault, you know?” Slade watched him, blank, waiting for him to elaborate. “The dust. The dust you put in your mask. I triggered it, and it almost killed me.” He shifted, trying to shake of the unpleasantness of the memory. “We figured it out. Well, the others did. Fixed it and I settled in for the usual tail end of hallucinogen bullshit. Except… it didn’t go away. You did, thank god. But him,” He waved an arm at Batman’s corpse, “And,” he wiggled his fingers next to his ear, “Didn’t.”

Slade looked like he was digesting the information, and Dick turned back to the wall. “Usual tail end of hallucinogen bullshit?”

“Fear gas and shit always took longer to wear off for me. Even after antidotes.” He shrugged. Smirked at him, “But it was your shit that tipped the balance, so good job, making me actually psychotic.”

He snorted, “That sounds more like a matter of time, Richard. If it hadn’t been my dust it would have been something else.”

He grinned at him. Because it was funny. That Slade’s biggest issue with him was only as bad as it was because of him. “Still though. One of the biggest issues I have is your fault.”

“You’ve never done anything about it?” Slade asked, ignoring him.

Dick just shrugged, “I had it handled.”

“Had?”

His eyes slid over to meet Slade’s single grey one. “Before you locked me in solitary isolation, yeah.”

A scoff, “As someone who has been watching your career trajectory since your mid-teens, Richard I find that difficult to believe.”

“I did. It never interfered with my work.” He smirked again, “If it had, you would’ve known about it, but you didn’t.”

“I knew enough to know that you were spiralling and that you need guidance. I knew enough to know that you’d come with me when I offered-”

“Threatened.” He cut in.

“You an opportunity for that guidance,” He finished without acknowledging the interruption. “I didn't know what was causing the spiral, but I knew enough.” He tilted his head in a way that Dick tried not to read as sympathetic, “Does Bruce know?”

He couldn't stop the scoff. “I've never told him. But that doesn't mean much with B.” Bruce had always been bad at boundaries. And he was the world’s greatest detective. “I wouldn't be surprised if he’s figured it out sometime in the last six years.”

“I would.”

Dick blinked in surprise, turned his whole head to face him. “What?”

“You are something of a blind spot for him, aren't you. He assumes what your behaviour will be, because he assumes you are the same boy he took in all those years ago.” His head tilted in the other direction, “But you're not. And he doesn't know how to deal with that.”

He huffed softly, Slade wasn't wrong, but that made him uncomfortable to think about. “‘Took in’? Most people just say adopted.”

He got the distinct feeling Slade was raising an eyebrow at him, “He never adopted you, Richard. You're his ward, his heir presumptive. Not his son.”

His eyes darkened and he turned back to the wall. “I think I prefer the company of the voices in my head.”

Slade chuckled. “Well it's them or me, Richard.” He stood up, “We’ll have to find a way to manage your symptoms. But training will continue throughout. I'll see you tomorrow, Apprentice.”

Dick didn't answer as the door slid closed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness me this is late. I'm very sorry, I have been having a t i m e of it with the capitalism.  
> Hoping to get more of a handle on my life soon

Time continued its unending and unintelligible march onwards and Dick remained at it’s mercy. Slade’s training had… changed after his outburst. Become more like actual training and less like plain abuse. And it made him frustrated that he didn’t know if he was grateful for that. Or if he should be. The voices of the Not-the-League had varying opinions on the matter whenever his thoughts turned that way and they were around. He did his best to ignore them.

He was annoyed that they were still around. Slade had been easing him into something more closely resembling a routine, he was fairly certain, and the juicy Batman had vanished at some point. He was relieved that the Dickensian part of his nightmare was gone, at least. But he couldn’t figure out why the Greek chorus was still hiding in his blind spot. He just had to keep reminding himself that it was only a matter of time before they also vanished again. And ignoring how the thought always made at least one of them laugh.

He was allowed out of his room more, now. Not a lot, and never unsupervised. But he ate outside, at the kitchen island, and with Slade, rather than alone in his small, timeless room. It was… nice. Not to exist only in the space between training and solitude. To have a little more room to breathe. He thought it was a stupid move, on Slade’s part, frankly. The less breathing space he had the easier he would be to break. But he was trying not to ask and look his newly gifted horse in the mouth.

Besides, there were caveats.

For one, Slade wouldn’t answer him if he didn’t use some kind of title at he beginning or end of his sentence. And sometimes he swore that he pretended not to hear him until he said master. It had stopped making him want to throw up, but there was still a twinge in his gut when he had to force the word past his teeth. He knew that was why he was doing it. To desensitize him. He hated that it was working.

He hated that there were times when he didn’t have to force it out.

More than once he had heard it trip out of his mouth without thought, over food or when he was training. As if it were normal. A normal thing to say. And that left an acrid taste in his mouth that the word itself had lost. He was certain that there had been times he hadn’t noticed, because when he did and reacted Slade would look at him half amused and half exasperated.

It was the same reaction that had replaced the disappointed sighed and tongue clicks he’d used to get in response to his petty backtalk and snark. It was just as frustrating as every other change since his outburst. It didn’t make sense to him that Slade wasn’t coming down harder on his attitude. He was being too nice. Fuck, sometimes he even laughed at whatever stupid insult he slung at him. It left Dick doing backflips between relief and fury at himself and guilt and fury at Slade.

Not for the first time he found himself wishing that Slade was being outright cruel, so that he didn’t have to deal with the warring strains of thought. Not-Barry and Not-Clark laughed at him amongst themselves.

He fidgeted with his fork, swiping it through the escaped yolk of his egg. “Sir?” He glanced at Slade’s stupid perfectly smooth mask but the man was ignoring him. Reading something on his phone as he nursed his coffee. He turned his head slightly, said louder, “Sir.” He let out an aggravated noise when Slade still didn’t acknowledge him. “Master. God you’re such an _asshole_.”

Slade raised his eye to look at him, chuckled into his coffee, “Apprentice?”

Dick stared at him, “I don’t get it,” he dropped his fork onto his plate and sat back in his chair.

He sighed, turned back to his phone, “What don’t you get, Richard?”

He gestured between them wildly, “This! Any of this! I just called you an asshole and you fucking laughed. Why?” He watched as Slade finished his coffee, stood and rinsed out his cup. “I don’t understand why you’re letting me mouth off like this. It’s insane.”

Slade walked around the kitchen island, Dick’s eyes following him until he moved behind him and rested a hand on his shoulder. His eyes flicked back to his plate rather than turn his head. He’d walked into his blindspot deliberately, and there was no point in trying to remedy that until Slade wanted it remedied. He squeezed Dick’s shoulder viciously. He winced, tried to pull away automatically making Slade tighten his grip even more and he felt more than heard the whimper escape his teeth. “Would you rather I go back to beating you?”

He started to look back but stopped himself. “I mean, honestly? Ah!”

His grip tightened further, “If I wanted to beat that mouth out of you, Richard, rest assured I could.” He leaned in, speaking right next to his ear. Dick shut his eyes tightly, ignored Diana’s voice snapping that he should be able to break that hold. “However,” Slade’s voice was quieter, it gave him the impression he had one eyebrow raised, “If I wanted a robot for an apprentice, I’d just build one.” He released his grip and patted his shoulder gently, moved back to his seat.

He rubbed at his shoulder, “That didn’t stop you last time.”

“‘Last time’ was six years ago. A lifetime ago. I’d like to think I’ve grown as a person.” He hummed, returning to whatever he was reading.

Dick stabbed at his egg, “Well joke’s on you, _master_ , you have to be a person to do that.”

Slade just chuckled again. “Finish your food and start your warm-ups. I want to work on evasion today.”

He pulled a face, “My dodging skills are fine.” He scowled at the flat look he was being given. “They are. I barely get hit.”

“Maybe not by thugs and untrained muscle. But you’re not even dodging twenty percent of hits from me.” He swiped at his phone screen idly, mumbling something under his breath.

Dick rolled his eyes, “You’re a meta, remember? The super soldier experiments, your medical discharge. You’re ~enhanced~”

“There was a time when you could go toe to toe with half the league and every meta in Gotham.” Slade put his phone down. “You were one of the best fighters on the planet. But you got sloppy.” Dick stared at his plate as he spoke. “I sent Cinderblock after you to bring you to me because I knew without a shred of doubt that you could easily beat him on your own. And you did. At fifteen. But now? You’d be lucky to get away with broken bones.”

The Not-League were arguing with each other. Some of them agreed with Slade and some of them didn’t. He had been better before. But Slade was acting like he’d let the finer points of his skills atrophy out of laziness. Like there were no confounding factors. And he wasn’t suddenly helpless. He was still a formidable opponent for ninety percent of people. The Not-Leaguers on his side of the divide got louder, and the ones siding with Slade rose to meet them and Dick raised his shoulders to his ears.

“That’s not fair,” He said softly.

“Isn’t it?” He hummed.

“I’m not helpless. I’m-”

“Not against street thugs, and untrained muscle, no-”

“Not at all! I’m a good fighter-”

“You haven’t gotten the upper hand against me once-”

“You’re my captor!” He screamed, “You were beating me!”

Slade shook his head, “Richard…”

“No! You don’t get to sit there and talk like it was normal fucking sparring and not some fucked up power play!”

Slade slammed his hand down on the bench and Dick was glad that his flinch was limited to a stuttered blink. He breathed slowly for what felt like almost a minute. “I admit I was taking my frustrations out on you. However, you have had plenty of opportunities to spar with me properly, and you have yet to be able to gain any kind of advantage.”

He studied the smooth metal of his mask again. It was hard to believe he’d cracked it once. That he’d beaten him. “You are my captor. The only reason you aren’t locking me in my cell every second I’m not training is because it sets off the psychosis that you gave me.”

He sighed, “I did not make you psychotic, Richard. And that is not the only reason.”

“Bullshit.” He said evenly. “You-” He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to control his breathing. “I'm-” _powerless_. His voice caught on the word. But it was true. Slade held all the cards. “What we do. It can't be normal sparring. The power imbalance is-”

The Not-League had mostly quieted now. He felt like they were watching him try to keep his breathing even. He heard someone snicker and get hushed.

He didn't hear Slade stand again. Didn't realise he'd moved until he grabbed his jaw tightly. “Richard look at me.” He squeezed and Dick winced but opened his eyes. The mask was just as perfect and smooth and impassive as always. “You are my apprentice. We are not equals. But I expect you to do whatever you can to get the upper hand, be it sparring or in life.”

“Captive.” He whispered, barely audible to his own ears.

Slade's head tilted, “Pardon?”

He cleared his throat, “I'm your captive.” The grip on his jaw tightened painfully and a small pained noise got caught in his throat.

Slade sighed before letting go. “I'm not going over this again, Richard. If that's how you insist on-”

“ _Insist_? You complete-”

“I am not having this argument again,” He said, slow and clear.

“It's not an argument, you threatened me. My family. I’m not gonna let you gaslight me.” He snapped.

Slade rolled his eye, “Don't be so dramatic.”

“Fuck you! You kidnapped me. You're keeping me prisoner. I have no choice. You're forcing me to call you _master_ for god’s sake.” He stood up. The Not-League was chattering and laughing but he couldn't understand what they were saying. “I won't let you gaslight that awa-” his head snapped to the side, his cheek throbbed where Slade hit him. He squared his shoulders and straightened his head, starting straight forward. “I thought you weren't going to beat the mouth out of me.”

Slade shrugged, “You were getting hysterical, Richard. I had to calm you down.”

“What is it the fucking nineteen forties?” He wanted to touch his cheek, but he didn't want to move.

“Finish your breakfast and warm up.” He rolled his eye. “I'm making another coffee.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's time for some Sad Boy Hours today

The tv was playing when he left his room for breakfast and he rolled his eyes. It was something Slade had taken to doing recently. A bit ago he'd squeezed Dick's shoulder gently and there’d been a smile in his voice when he’d said that Dick was improving. Finally. And the next day the tv had been on. A way to train with distractions, Slade had said. The real world is noisy. You don't fight in sterile training conditions. Things happen around you.

Dick had tried to argue that he has plenty of in built distractions to train with, but Slade had shaken his head. The Not-League were in built, so they couldn't fill in for general life distractions.

So the tv would have to do.

Dick didn't really mind. If he was careful, he could just barely split his attention and get some snatches at least of the outside world. They didn't make a whole lot of sense all the time. But honestly that could just be his brain garbling the information he was getting. Or throwing a fucking fit because the patterns wouldn't match up with what it figured they should be. Slade could be tampering with it, he guessed. But he wouldn't even have to.

It was some twenty-four-hour news channel today, droning on about politics and polls and economics. Nothing super inflammatory so he figured he should be fine not getting distracted when training started.

He was wrong, though. Dick only managed to ignore it until about halfway through their second bout.

Until he heard his name.

“-chard Grayson, known as Dick to his friends, went missing. Complicating matters is the fact that no one seems to know when or where he was last seen.” He turned his head slightly, waved a hand to hush the Not-League as they chattered so he could better hear the report. “We go live now to Bruce Wayne as he once again appeals to the public for information.”

He turned fully to face the screen as it flicked over. He thought he maybe heard Slade sigh but it could’ve been Not-Clark. Bruce looked awful. Well-dressed and put together, but awful. Stressed and so tired. He was on the steps of Wayne Enterprises, surrounded by flashing cameras and clamouring voices. He took a numb step forward as Bruce cleared his throat and god he _sounded_ awful too.

“I want to thank you all for coming again. I appreciate your help in getting this out there. My ward-" his voice faltered and Dick felt his heart tighten, “My _son_ is still missing and I am begging you, of anyone has seen him, Or has any information about where he could be please call the tip line on the screen. Even if it's just a hunch or you think it doesn't matter, please every little bit helps.”

The were shots from the reporters before one won out, a woman, “Mr Wayne, do you think that Richard has been kidnapped?”

“I... I don't know. If Dick was kidnapped there would've been a ransom call? Usually? But I- if he wasn't... god, I'm sorry.” He chuckled weakly, “I can't imagine him being-" he choked off abruptly and closed his eyes. Dick reached for the screen slightly as the Not-League split between cooing sympathetically and berating him.

“Mr Wayne!” a man, “Is it true that the two of you weren't on speaking terms prior to this?”

Bruce looked heartbroken; Dick winced. “We- we uh, haven't been on the best of terms since we lost Jason.” His voice got tight so he cleared his throat, “My fault. But we weren't cut off by any means.”

“Is there a chance that he's just left, and isn't missing?” the same man. Dick hated him for the looks he kept putting on Bruce’s face.

“I... no. None of his friends have seen him either. I know him, and this isn't like him. Something is wrong.”

“Mr Wayne, what would you say to your son if he's watching?” a different woman.

Bruce looked directly at the camera, “Dick, please, just call home. I'm so sorry, about everything. We're worried about you, we- _I_ , just want to know you're safe. I love you so much.” Dick stared at the screen, everything quiet for a moment as the weight of what had been said hit him. Because it hadn't been in his Brucie voice. It was Bruce. B. His- the man who raised him. Another reporter caught Bruce's attention and the spell broke. The Not-League broke out into a cacophony of opinions and he winced.

“He's a better actor than I thought, I'll give him that,” Slade said casually, moving to stand beside him.

He didn't look away from the screen, “A-actor?”

He felt Slade give him a sidelong look, “He's been doing this for a week, maybe a week and a half.”

“So?”

“Richard,” there was the soft edge of concern in his voice. Dick hated it because he could never tell if it was sincere. “You've been with me for almost three months now. And he only reported you missing a week or so ago.” Slade put a hand on his shoulder, tried to turn him away from the tv but Dick couldn’t tear his eyes from Bruce’s exhausted face. “He waited two and a half months.”

It was a long time, and Dick felt a knot growing in his stomach. “Nightwing and Dick Grayson can’t vanish at the same time. It’s protocol.” He said weakly.

He tipped his head slightly, a soft disappointment, “That would account for one month, maybe. But two and a half? He hasn’t found you in two and a half months?”

Dick felt bile rise in his throat. “You don’t let me outside the apartment, hate it when I’m near the window. How could he?”

Slade made a disbelieving noise, “Richard, I brought you here by way of the elevator. We walked through the lobby. There are cameras in both. We are in the heart of the city, and we came here in costume. But the world’s greatest detective hasn’t found you in two and a half months.”

He squeezed his eyes closed and clenched his fists until he felt his nails digging into his skin. “You deleted the tapes.”

“You sound certain.” he shook his head in resignation, “Maybe you’re right, maybe I did. Or maybe, just maybe, I didn’t need to.” He squeezed his shoulder sympathetically. “As that,” He inclined his head at the tv, which had returned to the news anchor as she reiterated Bruce's tip-line number, “Has killed any chance at focus from you for the day, I'm going to do some work.” He turned, headed in the direction of the study. “I’d stop watching if I were you, it won't make you feel any better.” When Dick didn’t answer he just sighed and vanished.

Dick moved towards the tv slowly, they’d moved onto something else now but he wasn’t listening to whatever it was. He sank to the floor without even considering the couch or any other kind of seat. He needed to find a remote. Pray that this stupidly high end apartment meant that the tv could rewind from live and rewatch the appeal. They’d had so many stupid codes and tells, ways to convey deeper meanings when they were in the wrong costumes to speak freely. There had to be some in the appeal. His stance, his words, his tone. Something in what Bruce had been on that screen, standing on the steps of a building Dick could see from where he’d dropped onto the carpet, had to _explain_ why he’d waited so long.

Because Slade was right. Protocol was one month between civilian and nightshift _incidents_. A month and a half if they were feeling paranoid. Over two months was... excessive.

Did Bruce think it had only been a month? Had it taken him that long to notice? _Had_ it only been a month? It felt like it had been longer. He was _sure_ it had been longer than that. But why hadn’t Bruce noticed before now? Or before a month ago. He had to have. Dick couldn’t think of a time that Batman hadn’t been at least keeping an eye on him. He couldn’t think of a time that B hadn’t had _some_ idea of what was happening with him. At least where he was. Even the first time Slade grabbed him it wasn’t like he hadn’t known about it. He’d just trusted Dick to be able to handle it. Or he’d trusted the Titans to handle it.

Hadn’t he?

He shook his head violently. He had. He _had_ to have. There had been the coded messages, the signals, the tells. The little things Bruce had left to say _if you need me._

The little things that he’d been seeing less and less of before he’d gone with Slade.

Slade had said he was acting. Dick didn’t want to believe that. Didn’t want to _entertain_ the idea. He was so sure that it had been _Bruce_ , no masks and no personas, the quiet, tired, intelligent, emotionally constipated but deeply caring man that only existed in the cave and the manor. That only existed for his family.

But that didn’t make sense with waiting two and a half months. That didn’t make sense with not having found him yet. And trying to reconcile it was making it difficult to breathe. Either Bruce was being earnest but had felt the need to wait and hadn’t found him despite the fact that he was barely a city block away from him right now, which didn’t feel possible. Or he was being earnest and he just had the wrong timeline. That he thought Dick had vanished a month or so ago and not almost three months ago. Having the wrong timeline would go a ways to explaining why he hadn’t found him yet, if Bruce wasn’t looking far enough back then of course he wouldn’t see the tapes of Nightwing and Deathstroke entering the apartment building. If they even still existed.

But that still meant that he hadn’t noticed Dick was gone for at least a month. And that still felt like it was impossible.

Which left acting as the only option left. That he didn’t want to or didn’t care to find him. That Dick was wrong and it hadn’t been Bruce begging for help, saying that he missed him, that he loved him. Calling him his son. It had been Brucie, and part of the act.

It was the only option that didn’t feel impossible. No matter how much he wanted it to.

He hunched over until his forehead brushed the carpet and hugged himself tightly as a harsh sob forced its way out of his throat.


	9. Chapter 9

The apartment was silent when he left his room. It was weird. Normally he could hear Slade somewhere in the penthouse, moving around or typing from his study. But there was nothing. He eased his door all the way open. “Master?” There was no answer. “Slade?” Still nothing. He frowned, “Overly controlling asshole keeping me imprisoned here?” he sighed softly, moving into the hall. Even if Slade was asleep he felt that he should be able to hear him. Maybe it was a test. Maybe Slade was hiding somewhere to see what he’d do. That seemed probable, but frankly, Dick couldn’t bring himself to care about passing whatever little exam he had planned. Especially when he hadn’t been informed of the parameters.

He started checking the other rooms to see if Slade was just being weirdly quiet. The study was empty and didn’t have anywhere big enough for a man who stood well over six foot to hide. No one hiding anywhere in the living room or the bathroom or the stupid open plan kitchen. He hesitated outside Slade’s room. It felt… weird to just barge in like he had to the other rooms. This was in no way a shared space, even if he wasn’t there. He felt like a child hesitating outside a teacher’s office. Or like when he was eight and hesitated almost exactly like this outside Bruce’s room.

Oh, now he wanted to vomit.

He pushed the door open, “Wakey wakey, Master~” The room was surprisingly airy and bright. Though considering the design of the kitchen he shouldn’t really be surprised, but it wasn’t what he was expecting. He didn’t know what he thought it should be. Black and rust like the haunt? Industrial and intimidating and heavy. Not light colours and light sheets and a big window with tasteful minimalist downlights. “Fucked.” He mumbled as he entered. Slade wasn’t here either, nor was he hiding in the en-suite (this apartment had three bathrooms and that seemed a little excessive considering that there was one bedroom and one guestroom) or the wardrobe. He just wasn’t in the apartment at all.

Dick wasn’t sure what to do with that.

He wandered back into the kitchen and sat at the kitchen island. The time on the microwave was the same as it had been yesterday so Slade should be here, but. He just wasn’t. Well. Fuck him. Dick wasn’t going to let Slade’s mysterious absence ruin his shiny new routine of actually eating breakfast. He stood up and started looking through the cupboards. He was a truly awful cook, so making food probably wasn’t going to be his best bet, but the only cereal he found was some awful looking adult cereal that he could just feel in his bones would taste like cardboard. And he was pretty sure he remembered Alfred’s pancake recipe. If he got really desperate he’d just sneak onto Slade’s computer and find an easy one.

Pancakes shouldn’t be too hard to do. He’d be fine. He was pleasantly surprised when he found self-raising flour and sugar, he knew there was milk and eggs because Slade had milk in his coffee and they always had eggs for breakfast. He was pretty sure he knew the ratios that Alfred used. This would be fine.

In retrospect, he should have clocked that pretty sure as a sign of things to come. His batter was lumpy and he forgot that even though he was 95% certain that the pan he’d found was non-stick, he still had to grease it with something so his first pancake burnt to the bottom and by the time he finally got it up it flicked over the stovetop and the raw top splattered everywhere. His second pancake managed slightly better but was still burnt to hell and tasted like raw flour and it was at that point that he decided fuck it and emptied his terrible batter and two ruined pancakes into a plastic bag. After some consideration he shoved the now thoroughly fucked up pan in the bag as well before tying it off and pouring himself some terrible grown up cereal and plonking himself down in his normal spot to sullenly shovel it into his mouth.

He was considering dumping a bunch of sugar on it when the front door opened. He stood instantly, falling into a defensive stance on instinct. “Is something burning, Richard?” Slade’s voice called.

Dick relaxed, rubbed the back of his head, “Not anymore?”

He heard Slade sigh, as he came into the kitchen. He levelled a look at him and Dick got the distinct impression that he was raising an eyebrow. “What did you do, apprentice?” He went to examine the bag of batter and other pancake related sins as Dick tried to explain.

“Well, I got up and you weren’t here but I know that routine is important and I was kinda hungry anyway but your cereal is all gross adult fibre rich boring shit so I thought I’d make pancakes cause I was pretty sure I remembered how and…” He gestured at the pan that Slade had fished out of the bag, “Yeah.”

Slade scoffed lightly as he plopped the pan back into it’s battery grave, “How in god’s name did you survive on your own?”

“Take out, mostly. And cereal.”

“Which I see you’ve resorted to despite how ‘boring’ it is.” He picked up one of the coffee cups he’d put on the counter when he’d come in.

Dick sat back down, “I’m considering putting sugar on it.”

Slade looked up at the ceiling. “Again, the fact you’re alive is a medical marvel, Richard.”

He smirked, “Don’t be dramatic, Master.” He shoved more cereal in his mouth, mumbling, “Where were you?”

Slade shrugged, “Dealing with something.”

Dick looked at the counter, “A job?”

He slid the other coffee over to him, “Do you really want the answer to that?”

He didn’t have an answer for that, really. He liked knowing things, consequences of being raised as a detective from a young age, but he didn’t super want to think about the fact that the money that paid for his existence right now was a product of mercenary work and assassinations. “Point taken, I guess.” He took the coffee, fidgeting with it rather than drinking it, “You didn’t tell me you were gonna be gone though.”

Slade hummed, “You… well I’d say you managed, but,” He waved a hand at the plastic bag and Dick twisted his lips sheepishly. “Regardless, you were fine. I knew even if I wasn’t back by the time you got up that I wouldn’t be that far away.” He got an amused glint in his eye, “Why, were you worried?”

“No.” He said automatically. And he hadn’t been, not really. Curious, but not concerned. He knew Slade wouldn’t leave him here and take off, he’d invested too much time now. “I’m a sunk cost fallacy for you now.”

He tutted, “Richard, that only applies to things that are no longer worth the effort. _You_ are improving every day.” Dick made a gagging noise and he scowled, “Don’t do that, it’s the truth.”

“It’s a blatant manipulation.” He corrected, fishing the almond flakes that were his breakfast’s only redeeming feature out of the bowl to eat them all at once.

“Maybe,” Slade conceded, “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t true. Now, finish that and clean up the mess you made.” He pulled another plastic bag from the cupboard to put the batter crimes in, “I should take the price of that pan out of your salary.”

Dick raised an eyebrow, snorted, “I get a salary? Where the hell is it?”

Slade turned to him, “It covers your room, board, and training until you make journeyman.”

He laughed, “Oh, yeah? When’s that gonna happen?”

He sounded equally amused, “I haven’t decided yet.” He took the bag to the door, presumably to get the evidence of the pancake catastrophe into the building’s garbage chute as soon as possible, “Eat up, clean up, warm up. And maybe it’ll be before you turn thirty.” He teased as he let the door close behind him.

Dick chuckled into his cereal. At least his only penance for almost wrecking the kitchen was clean up duty, he could live with that.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a touch late, I'm sorry  
> If I blame capitalism will y'all believe me?

At some point, Dick became aware that things had shifted. Time had passed and it had changed things. Even things that he thought should have been immutable. It occurred to him at some point during the night, staring at the ceiling of his room in the dark. The whispers of the Not-League had quietened a bit ago and he felt more steady than he had in a long time. He and Slade had settled into an easy routine, and an easy kind of banter that he couldn’t bring himself to be wary of anymore. It was… he knew it should be concerning. His room wasn’t _really_ a room. It was a cell. If Slade wanted to he could lock the door and there would be no way for him to escape. But at the same time, the door wasn’t locked. Hadn’t been locked in – oh god what even was time? – weeks maybe. If he really wanted to, right now, there was nothing stopping him from getting up, and sneaking out. Going to a payphone and collect calling the manor. Begging for forgiveness and praying that Bruce would help him. He’d have to. If only for the sake of his image.

He screwed his eyes shut and rolled onto his side. With one arm jammed unto his pillow he could feel his comm unit- tracker- _thing_ digging into the shell of his ear. It was easy to forget that it was there, most of the time. Until he bumped it, or leant on it, or it got hit during training because he was being sloppy again. Slade didn’t use the stupid static thing much anymore, and it’s not like he was ever far enough away to use it as a comm. It did mean that he couldn’t really go to Bruce. Slade would know exactly where he was. Besides. There were the terms of the arrangement. Slade was only beholden to them if Dick did what he was told.

A sudden wave of nausea hit him and he rolled over again and curled into a ball.

He’d forgotten. Or… not forgotten, but let it slide to the back of his mind. That there were _rules_. He was a captive, he knew that. He _knew_ that he was here against his will. He couldn’t let that fade. He couldn’t forget that Slade held the safety of his family over his head. Even if he didn’t act like it. And if he went through with his stupid threat it would just tighten his hold on Dick. It would destroy Bruce. It could damage the entire caped community. And it would be his fault. They’d blame him, rightly, and that would be it. Bruce didn’t want him _now_ , he wouldn’t want him after Dick’s selfishness ruined his life. Slade would be all he’d have.

It was starting to look like he already was.

It was starting to feel like that might not be so bad.

That wasn’t something that Dick really wanted to consider too carefully. He curled into a tighter ball and tried to sleep.

***

Dick knew that he was being distant the next day. He kept his responses to non-committal sounds and rarely met Slade’s eye when he was talking. He wasn’t sure if he was grateful or not that he didn’t bring it up until after dinner. It would probably be classed as an early meal for a lot of people, but Dick had grown up eating a small dinner and then another supper after patrol, so it didn’t bother him the way he figured it would bother some other people. It would bother Beast Boy, probably, but then, BB ate when he was hungry, actual time be damned.

Slade had vanished into his office pretty much the moment he’d finished eating, pointedly reminding Dick about the steadily growing washing up pile that he’d been procrastinating. He was aware of Slade leaning on the kitchen island behind him before he spoke, but he focussed on the too hot water and stubborn pan in front of him.

“Apprentice, are you alright? You’ve been off all day.”

His grip tightened on the sponge, “I… I didn’t sleep well. Got caught up thinking.”

“Always dangerous.” There was a small smile in his voice, but it dropped when Dick didn’t respond. “What about?”

He hesitated. “A-about this. Being here. Captivity.”

He could _feel_ Slade rolling his eye, “Richard…”

“I mean- you don’t lock anything anymore. But I’m still-”

“Do you want me to go back to locking you in your room?” He asked drily.

He made an annoyed noise and dropped the pan into the too hot water. “No. Of course not. But-” he faltered. He didn’t know how to articulate what was wrong. He didn’t know if he should. “It doesn’t matter. The locks. They’re for show, mostly. Because you have this,” He gestured at his ear. “And if worst comes you can just-”

“Richard,” Slade’s voice was almost gentle and he squeezed his shoulder.

“The amount of damage that could do…”

“It’s not like I’m just going to do it at random. I don’t _want_ to. It’s a l-”

“Last resort.” Dick scowled, “You don’t have to patronise me.”

He sighed softly, moved his hand and returned to the other side of the table. “Why was this on your mind last night?”

He shrugged, “It just was. The lucidity of the witching hour I guess.”

There was a clunk of something metal on the counter. “Well, don’t stress yourself into a fit. I’m going out.”

“Work I assume.”

“You keep asking questions that you don’t want the answers to.” Slade hummed.

Dick frowned, “It’s not my fault I was raised as a detective.”

The smile was back in Slade’s voice, “Yes it was. Robin was your idea, wasn’t it?”

He turned around, “Y’know what-” his voice died in his throat. The clunk. The metallic clunk had been his mask. Slade’s mask was sitting on the counter. Dick could barely look at his face. He knew what Slade looked like, of course he did. He’d seen his old military records. Fuck he’d seen the old photo that Joey kept in the back of his wallet, the one that had the four of them, just a month or so before the whole Jackal incident had wrecked the family once and for all. But he’d never seen it in person.

Slade stared at him like he’d grown a second head, “Richard?”

“Mask. Your… your mask.” His voice was soft and strained. This was… he’d taken Dick’s mask straight away, but removing his own? It was sign of trust that he didn’t ever expect from Slade.

He looked between him and the mask. “…What about it?”

That shocked Dick into looking at him. He looked older than any of the pictures, more tired. “You’re not wearing it.” Slade narrowed his eye slightly in confusion and Dick didn’t know if he was about to scream or cry. “You’re always wearing it.”

He tipped his head to one side, “No, I’m not.”

The noise that escaped him was almost a whimper and he was vaguely aware that it felt like it was on the other side of thick cotton batting. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying, Richard-”

Dick realised he’d stepped back when his back collided with the sink’s edge. “Yes you are. Yes you do. You’re lying. You always wear your mask. You’ve never-” the string of babbling words choked off before they could solidify into anything other than a tangle of loose threads. He was getting lightheaded. “I’ve never…”

He looked… sad. Concerned. Pained, almost. “Richard, I haven’t worn my mask in front of you in months.”

“Stop it. Stop. Stop _lying_.” He was shaking. Oh he hated this. He was shaking because Slade was lying to him. He had to be lying to him. If he wasn’t that meant that Dick had been imagining that his mask was there. For months.

He hadn’t even registered that Slade had moved until his hands came to rest on Dick’s upper arms, “Richard- Richard, stop.” He tried to pull away, resulting in his grip tightening until he stilled. “I want you to think for a moment. We eat together, yes? How can I eat in a full face metal mask?”

He wanted to vomit. He heard someone laugh in his blind-spot and someone else shush them. _No_. _No no nononono._ He leaned back and slammed his heel into Slade’s diaphragm, shocking him enough to break out of his hold and bolted from the kitchen. But he didn’t know where to run. His room was… bad. Enclosed. Claustrophobic. The stupid living room where they trained was too open. But all the other rooms were too unfamiliar. He ended up tucked into a corner in the living room, hidden behind some training equipment in an attempt to feel less exposed.

He’d been feeling so steady, been doing so well. And now he was in a ball, shaking, with his hands pressed to his mouth to keep from crying. He wasn’t surprised when Slade crouched in front of his spot, his mask in his hands. “Richard…” He sighed softly, “I’d rather not leave with you like this, but I have to go out tonight.” He moved a bo staff so he could see better. “Will you be okay?”

It sounded sincere, earnest. The Not-League cackled at him when he nodded, goading and judging, as cruel as ever.

“Are you sure?” Slade’s voice was steady, his form was still, a stark contrast to Dick himself. It was… comforting.

He nodded again, and his voice broke when he said, “Yes.”

Slade watched him for a moment, nodded and stood. “Try not to stay down there too long. You’ll cramp up. We’ll talk when I get home, okay?” He didn’t wait for an answer before he left, the front door closing quietly.

He closed his eyes tightly and tried to control his breathing. After a while he eased himself out of his hidey-hole. The Not-League were still chattering at him but he’d mostly calmed down to the point he could ignore their jibes. Dick didn’t want to talk about anything when Slade got back, honestly. So he made his way back to his room and curled up in his bed. Hopefully if he was asleep, or seemed to be, Slade would leave him alone, at least until morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> psst - come hang out with me on twitter @demigenderbaby -


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOft I am so sorry this is so late! I've been, I don't even know. Life and birthdays and capitalism and blegh. I'll endeavour to be mor timely in future!

Slade opened his door early a couple of mornings later, “Up and at ‘em, Apprentice. Busy day.” Dick groaned and rolled over, burying his face in his pillow. At least until Slade reefed it out from under his head and his skull slammed into his forearms. “Now, Richard.” It would have been more intimidating if Dick couldn’t hear the smirk without even looking up.

“What time is it?” He grumbled, scratching at his scalp as he sat up.

“Early. Get dressed, we’re moving today and I need your help packing the gear.” Slade tossed a pair of jeans and a t-shirt at him while he gaped. He was out of the room before any of the many questions fighting to get past Dick’s teeth could manage it.

Moving was… he didn’t know what to do with that, honestly. He left the clothes on his bed and followed Slade out of the room. “Moving? What do you mean moving?”

Slade was standing in the kitchen, at the coffee machine, “I mean we’re moving.” He glanced over his shoulder and rolled his eye, “I had hoped you would get dressed before breakfast.”

“We’re leaving Gotham?” Dick asked leaning on the counter. He didn’t know why that of all the questions was the first one out of his mouth, but it was.

Slade raised an eyebrow, “No, I thought we’d pack up the entire pent-house and move to a different neighbourhood in this shithole city.” He moved to check on the stove.

“Gotham’s not that bad.” He said automatically. He sat down, fidgeted with his fingernails, “Why are we leaving? Did–” He bit at his lip. He wanted to ask, but it didn’t seem like a possibility. It probably wasn’t but still, “Did B…” the look Slade gave him was almost pitying and Dick felt his face burn. Of course Bruce hadn’t found him. He wasn’t looking. It was a stupid thing to ask.

“Work’s dried up here. We’re moving to greener pastures,” He slid a plate over to him, “Nothing out of the ordinary.”

He hummed, picked up his fork and poked at his eggs.

Slade frowned slightly, “After breakfast we’ll pack up the gear. There’s not a lot here, but we need to make sure it’s secure. We’ll get going as soon as possible. It’s a long trip.”

“Where are we going?” He looked up at him. Slade set his own plate on the counter, his mask was off again. He’d taken to pointing out explicitly when it was on in the couple of days since… that had happened and Dick… appreciated it. It resulted in some double takes when the mask would suddenly vanish from his skull or melt off. One time it crumbled away and there was only a skull beneath it and Dick could smell sulphur and he needed to take a moment to breathe. Slade knew _something_ had happened, but it was a hide too close thematically to the Dickensian Bat so Dick had held his tongue. He swallowed a forkful of egg and waited for Slade’s answer. “Master?”

“Hmm?” He looked up.

He sighed, “I asked where we’re going.”

Slade hummed, “I didn’t hear you.”

“Well I did.”

He sipped at his coffee, “Maybe you _thought_ you did–”

He frowned, “I did.”

The older man shrugged, “If you’re sure.”

He rolled his eyes, resigning himself to not getting an answer. He wished Slade would just be honest about ignoring him or not wanting to answer instead of trying to make him feel more unbalanced than he already did. But he was an asshole, so that was probably a pipe dream. He finished his food and excused himself. The clothes Slade had brought were comfortable enough at least. Even if it felt really weird to not be wearing sweats after so long.

They were getting out of Gotham. Which was… he didn’t know. He didn’t know how to feel. He didn’t want to be in Gotham, really. It was just a reminder that even though he was so close, Bruce hadn’t- couldn’t- wasn’t going to, wasn’t _trying_ to find him. Maybe being further away from him would ease that particular sting.

Hopefully it would.

But there was the little part of his mind that was screaming about trying to escape, about how going with Slade was digging himself in deeper. This was another mark, another thing that had changed, another level of familiarity, of comfort with this man that was keeping him captive. He tried to brush it aside. He didn’t have a choice anyway. He was going with Slade whether he liked it or not, so he may as well look on the bright side.

He wandered into the living room and found a bunch of bags and boxes, Slade looked up from where he was dismantling the weapon rack, “Ah, there you are. Help me pack.” Dick fell into an easy rhythm of packing things into their relevant homes and they finished pretty quickly. Slade nodded to himself, “Okay, grab a box and follow me,” He said, picking up two stacked boxes and walking to the door.

Dick grabbed a box and followed him. He hesitated at the threshold. He hadn’t been outside this apartment in… he didn’t honestly didn’t know. Slade noticed that he hadn’t moved and turned around, “Richard? Oh for god’s sake. Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Don’t be so rude.” He shot back. He huffed and stepped into the hall. “What are you waiting for?”

Slade raised an eyebrow, “The elevator. Unless you want to take the stairs?” The elevator doors opened and he stepped inside without waiting for an answer. Dick grumbled and followed him inside. They stepped out into an underground garage. “Over here,” he called, moving towards a dark blue SUV. He opened the back, balancing both his boxes with one hand before sliding them inside.

Dick slid his box in next to them, he thought Slade’s car was smaller than this. “Is this the same car you brought me here in?”

He shook his head, closing the door again, “No, there’s no way all of our things would fit in there.”

“I guess that’s true,” He hummed, “Do you have to show off by carrying so many boxes?”

Slade snorted, “If I took one at a time like you do, we wouldn’t get on the road until sundown.”

Dick made an affronted noise, “How dare. Would you rather I over extend myself and pull something? I’m not built for strength, Master.” He leaned on the elevator wall.

“Posture.” He frowned at him when the only response he got was rolled eyes. “Apprentice.”

He stood up properly, “We’re in an elevator. What could possible happen?”

“Anything. At any time.” Slade said easily.

He rolled his eyes again, “Sure.” His head knocked forward when Slade smacked the back of his scalp, just hard enough to make his point. “Ow.”

“Don’t be a child.”

“Don’t be a bully.” He retorted, supressing the urge to poke his tongue out at him in spite.

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment otherwise. They moved the rest of the boxes quickly and easily, and were leaving the parking lot just before lunch. Dick shuffled uncomfortably in the front seat, pulling his feet up onto the seat to curl slightly. Slade rapped his shoulder, “Sit properly.”

“Why?” He curled tighter.

“Are you going to be this obstinate the entire drive?” He asked tiredly, “If we crash, you will die if you’re sitting like that.”

“You have better reflexes than that. The only way we’re crashing is if you want us to.” He shrugged and looked out the window. It was tinted, but not so dark as to be conspicuous, the whole car was just normal enough as to not draw the attention that a black, tinted suv would. He frowned and sat up. Dick knew the way to Gotham’s airport. He’d used it plenty of times before. And Slade just missed the turn. “We’re not flying?”

“Do you have an ID that won’t be on a watchlist?” Slade said evenly.

He scowled, “We have already established that Bruce doesn’t care about finding me, Master. We don’t need to reiterate it.” There was a bitterness verging on bile rising in his throat and he shifted to hug his knees tightly.

“You were reported missing, Richard. What Bruce wants is irrelevant.”

“Why not just forge one?” He wanted to stop talking about Bruce. He hated everything about the entire Bruce situation.

“Gotham fakes are subpar at best. And there’s also the many, many guns.” He glanced over at him, “There’s more reasons than just you.” It was gentle, almost reassuring. Dick just shrugged. Slade sighed and turned on some music.

Dick was tired. His arms were tired and his mind was tired and he still felt bitter and raw. He always felt fucked up when he left Gotham, it was one of the reasons he avoided coming back. There was just so much baggage in the city. His parents, Bruce, Alfred, Jason. He wanted to leave but he also felt bad for running. And now, he wanted to get as far away from Bruce as possible. Even if that meant running closer to Slade.

The song changed and Dick frowned, turning to look at the stereo. He knew it, if he could just remember what it was. It was older, early seventies or late sixties. He tilted his head to one side, “Is this Bread?”

Slade looked at him, smiling softly, “I didn’t think anyone your age would know them.”

He hummed, “Joey listens to them.” Joey listened to a lot of things, but he remembered the easy guitar and soft vocals. He smiled softly, “Whenever I woke up late I’d hear him playing something from them, or Paul Simon, or Simon and Garfunkel.” He rested his cheek on his knees, “I learnt a couple so I could sing with him. It’s not the same as… but it was nice.”

Slade hummed softly, “I didn’t know he still…” He cleared his throat. “I am glad he has you.”

Dick shrugged, “He’s a good friend.” He let the conversation die at that, closing his eyes to listen to the song he still remembered the words to play softly. He was starting to doze off, a combination of the music and the motion of the car and he couldn’t bring himself to try not to. “Master? Where are we moving to?”

He wasn’t sure if it was a dream or real when Slade answered, “Starr. You rest, I’ll wake you when we’re closer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> psst - come hang out with me on twitter @demigenderbaby -


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooooookay! I am not dead and neither is this fic I just? Apparently went on an accidental month long hiatus and I am very sorry. I honestly have no idea what happened in november I think I just vanished into the void for a bit. But! I am back and I amposting again. I'm hoping to get fully back on track this month so we won't have to deal with that again.   
> Very sorry for the delay, though

The apartment in Star was actually nicer than the one in Gotham. At least as far as Dick was concerned. It was honestly probably pretty similar. They were both big, open plan, and hideously modern, but the new apartment lacked one thing. A safe room. There was no awful little cell. Which made sense, because it was Star, not Gotham. And it was only really Gotham that had safe rooms as standard past a certain price point. But Dick had an actual room. And it was still as Spartan as his last one but crucially, this one didn't lock from the outside. It also had a window, which was nice. He figured that way less people in Star would know him at a glance than Gotham so Slade was less worried about him being recognised.

He just liked having an idea of what the time was, honestly.

Slade had also given him his eskrima sticks back. And fuck but he’d missed them. The bo staff was fine and he used it for a long time and he was good at it. But eskrima was what he'd picked for himself and he was _very_ good with them. He felt like his training was coming along in leaps and bounds now. Even the fucking Not-League had murmured begrudging compliments when they'd been around (Dick figured they'd been shaken loose by the move and he was hoping they'd go away when everything settled), and he was taking quiet pride in the way Slade smiled softly and nodded approvingly at him.

“Good. Again.” Slade was pacing around the wall of the home gym (a much more sensible thing to have in a high end apartment), watching him run through katas. He repeated the move, “Careful not to telegraph what you’re doing.”

“They’re katas, Master.” He pulled a face without breaking rhythm.

“They’re the foundations of your combat. If you fuck up on these, you won’t be worth spit in a fight. You _know_ that. Again.” He stopped his pacing as if to heighten his point and Dick rolled his eyes but continued. He finished the set and Slade nodded, “Good work. Now, sparring.” He moved onto the mats they’d set up and made a come at me gesture.

Dick snorted, “Uh-uh, every time I make the first move I end up on my ass.”

He raised an eyebrow, “Then don’t telegraph your moves.” Dick opened his mouth to retort but Slade’s staff swung at him from nowhere and he just barely blocked it before flipping out of the way. “See?”

Dick narrowed his eyes and jumped back in, restarting the spar in earnest. He never got a blow in, but Slade hadn’t gotten any in either when he swung his staff down at Dick’s head. He crossed his sticks above his head to block it. Slade _hated_ him doing that. It left him open on both sides and he got yelled at for it constantly. He waited for the tell-tale shift in weight on the staff that meant Slade was gearing up to take advantage of the opening, adjusted his grip on his left stick to twist it around Slade’s staff – more to distract than disarm – and when Slade faltered he slammed his foot into his solar plexus. Dick grinned when it elicited a grunt from the man only to land on his ass when Slade dropped and swept his legs out from under him. “ _Fuck._ ”

Slade smirked and held out a hand to help him up, “Fight’s not over until it’s over, apprentice. But that was good. Very unexpected.”

Dick grinned as he accepted the hand, “I thought it was good.”

He arched a teasing eyebrow, “And it only took you months to get a hit in.” He poked his tongue out and Slade laughed, “Come on, let’s see if that was just a fluke.”

“Oh, it wasn’t.” He spun his stick around his hands before launching at Slade. He was rebuffed, but was out of the way before Slade could counter properly. He flipped and dodged and wove around Slade, only striking when he thought he might actually have a chance, focussing on trying to keep him off balance. He jumped up to avoid Slade’s staff and landed lightly on the end of it, long enough to wink, before flipping over the man’s head and sweeping at his legs. Slade did _not_ lose his footing like Dick had, to his eternal disappointment, managing to catch himself and springing away.

“My my, you are energised today, aren’t you?”

“Must be all the moonlight I’m getting from my new window. Bats run on moonlight you know. Like reverse kryptonians.” He quipped as the pair of them circled each other.

Slade laughed, “It’s a wonder you have any energy at all then, with how polluted Gotham’s sky is.”

He pouted, “Wow, rude. The moon’s almost always visible anyways.” Now that he thought about it that was kind of weird though. There was almost always cloud cover in Gotham, but also almost always moonlight. Raven said that Gotham always gave her weird magic vibes… maybe it was related? He just barely ducked away from Slade’s staff as it swung less than an inch from his head.

“Don’t get distracted, Richard. You’re better than that.”

He huffed as he refocussed on the task at hand and went in for another round.

***

He ended up actually getting a couple more hits in when Slade called it for the time being. Dick flopped over onto his back with an ‘oof’ and stayed there, arms and legs spread out on the mat, breathing hard. Slade stood next to his head, raising an eyebrow at him while taking a swig from his water bottle. Dick tipped his head to the side, “Hey master, do you think you only raise one eyebrow so much because you only have one eye?” He sputtered when Slade tipped the bottle up and squirted him in the face. “Hey! What? It’s a valid question!” He called, sitting up and waving at Slade’s back as he moved over to the little sink.

He tossed the other water bottle over to where Dick was still sitting, “No it isn’t. It’s an inherently flawed question. I raised a single eyebrow just as much when I still had two eyes.”

He caught the bottle, “Well how am I meant to know that? I never knew you with two eyes.” He took a long drink before he continued, “Guess I could ask Joey. But shockingly we didn’t really talk about you.” They didn’t really talk about either of their families. Anyone’s families. It was like the tower was a bubble where they could exist outside of the influence of adults. He missed that sometimes. He missed the other Titans too.

“Is that supposed to make me feel bad?” Slade tipped his head to one side, “I think I’d prefer that to the idea of my existence dictating every conversation my son has.”

Dick hummed, flopping back onto his back again.

“Are you just going to stay there?” He asked, tiredly.

“Nah. I’m gonna do some stretching.” He closed his eyes, “In a minute.”

There was an extended silence that made him smile because frustrating Slade was honestly pretty fun. “Don’t fall asleep there.”

He scoffed, “I’m not that tired.”

“Mm-hmm.”

He sat up and glared. Started stretching, “Asshole.”

Slade chuckled and vanished in the direction of one of the bathrooms. When he came back Dick was still stretching. “You’ve been improving massively, you know.”

He smiled, “Thanks.”

“I think you’re ready.” He said, leaning on the doorframe.

Dick frowned and looked up, “Ready?”

“To start going on jobs.” He said simply, and Dick’s brain short-circuited.

Jobs meant… jobs meant _jobs_. Probably stealing, fighting, god knows what else. Whatever else Slade wanted realistically and fuck he’d been so caught up in the fact that he wasn’t in Gotham anymore that he hadn’t realised that he _wasn’t in Gotham anymore_. Sending him into the field in the Bat’s backyard was dumb as fuck but they weren’t _in_ the Bat’s backyard anymore. He inhaled deeply, realising that he hadn’t since Slade had spoken. “Jobs meaning…?”

“Oh relax. I’m not going to send you on a hit. Even if I thought you could do it, you’d have an internal crisis and make a mess of it.” He stretched idly, walking over and pulling him onto his feet. “We’ll start with something light.” He studied Dick’s face for a moment before clapping a hand on his shoulder, smiling slightly, “This is a good thing, Richard.”

He swallowed, blinking rapidly, “Y-yeah.”

Slade sighed slightly, “Two steps forward, one step back. Don’t worry so much.” He nudged him towards the door, “Go wash up. We’re done for the day. You can relax.”

Dick hummed an affirmative and walked robotically towards the bathroom. His mind was whirling at a million miles and he felt like his whole careful balance was tipping. Slade was kidding himself if he thought that any relaxing was going to happen now.


End file.
